


Hands

by Inkpot



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Queerplatonic Relationships, btw cookies go to anyone who comments I want to know your version of who's who, first to figure out who is who gets a cookie, mildly surreal, nothing sexual or too explicit but I'm rating mature to be safe, or at least I meant it that way it's kind of open to interpretation, what can I say nonsexual intimacy is the best, you know you can read this in basically any combination of characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkpot/pseuds/Inkpot
Summary: It's alright if he's broken. They'll help him pick up the pieces.





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> So I mentioned in my last work I'd been planning to write something else? But logic got in the way? That would be this. If it seems a little weird, it's because I wrote most of it while partially asleep to maintain the surrealism of my stream-of-consciousness writing. Yes, it was actually on purpose this time.

Hands, running gently, carefully, along the edges of his suit and up to his shoulders. He’s pressed to sit on something soft. The hands slide down to undo the button and remove his jacket. He feels lighter already without the weight. It’s _different._ It’s _wrong._

Soft shushing noises, a series of feathery touches along his face, calming. He relaxes again.

The hands return, undoing the buttons on his shirt. But no, different hands; the first hands came from the front, and one is still against the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheek in a soothing gesture. He stays relaxed. He knows these hands.

The new hands ease his shirt off and pause, tracing one of the scars on his back with barely-there touches. He shivers at the faintly ticklish sensation. It stops for a moment before the touches move to his waist, arms curling around him and pulling him into something warm and solid. Soft pressure against his neck causes him to shiver again, head falling back against a shoulder.

He barely notices the first hands moving as they join the others at his waist, catching a wrist (not his) and squeezing before falling to undo his zipper. The second pair helps lift him so they can remove his pants, and he shivers again, this time with cold.

The warmth behind him vanishes for a moment, only long enough for something soft to envelop him. He snuggles into the blanket as he’s pulled against the warmth again. Someone presses a cup into his hands, and he raises it to his lips. Hot chocolate, cooled just enough to not risk burning him. He smiles faintly.

Hands (the first set, the second is still holding him tight) brush a strand of hair from his forehead, gently, as though trying not to disturb him. A faint murmur of voices, concern mixed with something he can’t place. Relief? No, more than that. He’ll worry about it when he’s not on the edge of sleep.

The cup vanishes somewhere. He lets the hands press him down again, until he’s curled on his side between two warm forms. He reaches out of his blanket cocoon to tug them closer, so close he can feel breath on his neck and a forehead against his. Only then does he let himself relax enough to sleep.

As he drifts off, he faintly feels a pair of hands settle on his hip, fingers lacing together to hold them close.

(It’s alright if he’s a little broken. They’ll always be here to piece him back together.)


End file.
